


Remembrance

by Ria



Category: Gankutsuou: The Count of Monte Cristo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1636673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ria/pseuds/Ria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a year later, and Albert will not let himself forget.  He will never forget the events of that summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> Dear silverr, I hope you liked this! I enjoyed writing it a lot: Gankutsuou is a fandom that definitely needs more fic. :) To everyone else reading, I also hope you like it!
> 
> Written for silverr

 

 

> ( **Note:** The French symbols and accents were continuously stripped in every version I uploaded, so I finally gave up when the deadline was almost upon me. Forgive me, but I did know the proper spellings!)

The thing about being a family fallen from grace, socially-speaking, is that it happens so _fast_.

Albert notices it almost immediately following the deaths of the Count and his father: people are avoiding him and his mother. Tainted, he supposes; damaged goods, destroyed by greed, lies, and a bought title.

 _Ruined,_ he hears in whispers when he wanders through the streets. _Ruined forever._

No.

No, he won't allow it. Not this time.

He won't let their deaths be in vain.

In the days to come, Albert also begins to realise that he had been utterly wrong about his mother. He had always thought her the backbone of their family, the cautious counterpart to his father's impulsiveness, but now he realises that she had the true strength all along, simply overshadowed by her husband's ambitions.

He hears her crying in the night, but her tears are always dry by morning.

She always attempts a smile for him when he finally faces her, but it never reaches her eyes. It's quite all right; it would be cruel of him to demand it.

His mother has lost everything, has lost the two most important men in her life, but she puts aside her feelings during the day. She picks herself up, picks him up, too, and dusts him off, and turns to face the future.

They do not talk about what has happened. Not now, not yet, but one day, one day, Albert is sure, they will.

It's all a matter of baby steps.

They are given time to mourn - they may not be true nobility anymore, but scandal never travels as fast in the business side of wealth - before the men in suits begin to knock on their door.

Fernand de Morcerf - apologies, Fernand _Mondego_ , they demur with sardonic smiles - is dead. And there are things to deal with.

There are always things to deal with, Albert thinks, gazing at them and trying not to clench his fists. He barely manages to swallow the desire to scream at them and to throw them out. They do not belong here - they do not _deserve_ to be here - but he does not have his father's command, the air of _I am right, you, with greatest apologies, are_ not.

Albert is not his father.

Perhaps, all things considered, this is a good thing.

His father is dead.

And they are no longer nobility.

= = =

His mother still cries, and it's been _months_ now.

Albert is finding it increasingly difficult to leave the house. It's not that he's afraid - he's sworn he will never be afraid again - it's more that he's just so _tired_ of being watched, being followed, being _judged_.

Eugenie has not spoken to him yet. She has not called, not asked for him, nothing.

He hates her for a little while until he realises that he has no right to.

His mother gazes at him for a long time over their morning coffee, her eyes blank.

"Perhaps she thinks you need time alone," she finally says, and leaves the room.

Albert hides in the library for the rest of the morning, shaking as terrible, dark guilt wells up in his stomach. He has taken to reading a great deal lately.

He finds himself missing his father terribly. There is nothing left to forgive, even if they must now face life alone.

He has not yet been to visit his father's grave in Marseille. He had refused to go, though he had helped in arranging the details, struggling with credit now refused to them when his mother could do little more than sit at the table with her head in her hands.

Paris is practically dead to them, now.

His mother has started to talk about returning to Marseille.

"To be closer to both of them," she had murmured, quietly enough that she probably hadn't meant for him to hear.

Albert had understood perfectly. Sometimes, there is just no need for names.

He reads, and reads, and reads.

There is no place for him in Paris any longer.

Yet he doesn't think Marseille holds anything for him, either, apart from memories and death, so much death, and regret, and fear.

"Your friend... Valentine," his mother says a few weeks later, toying with her coffee cup. "Valentine de Villefort. She was at the funeral. I always thought her a lovely girl."

Albert keeps his gaze on his empty plate. He does not say anything.

"She is teaching now. Young children, toddlers, really. She loves it, and the children love her," his mother continues. He can sense the supreme effort it's taking her to ensure that her voice doesn't tremble.

"She does not intend on returning to Paris."

Another friend lost.

Albert finally musters up the energy to write Valentine a letter, wishing her the greatest happiness in the world. He does not mention Maximilien. He does not think it wise, since he is still in the military.

His mother begins to pack.

Albert still does not know what to do.

= = =

A month before his mother leaves for Marseille, Albert receives a letter from Haydee.

She is being reinstated as the Princess of Janina, though there is still a long battle ahead of her to repair her planet's wounds.

Bertuccio is still with her.

Albert sits in a window seat for hours, until the sun is a long red streak in the sky, brighter than blood, reading and rereading the letter.

It is twilight when he folds it up again.

Now... now, he thinks he knows what to do.

He will do what both the Count and his father refused to believe in.

He will build peace.

= = =

It has been a year.

Franz is lying in the ground, through Albert has not yet visited his grave.

Eugenie is following her dream, though they have not seen each other in many months. Their letters are becoming more open, however, and much less stiff.

Progress, Albert reminds himself. It's progress.

His mother is beginning to smile again, and, this time, it's also reaching her eyes.

She refuses to ever return to Paris, like Valentine also decided.

This, Albert privately decides, it a very good thing. Whatever memories Marseilles holds for them, it is nothing compared to the devastation that Paris represents.

They are no longer nobility.

It hardly matters.

"It's been a year," his mother says the next time he comes to see her. "You owe Franz remembrance, at the very least." Her voice trembles; she is shaking, unable to meet his eyes. She knows, only too well, the price of remembrance.

Albert does not yell at her. He does not need to forgive her; there is nothing to forgive. He had thought her weak in every way that mattered, had thought her flighty and unable to choose between the two men in her life.

Now, he knows he had been wrong about everything. So very, very wrong.

"Not yet," Albert says. "Not yet. It's not time."

She does not tell him that he has no reason to feel ashamed. She does not say he has anything to repent for.

His mother no longer believes in excuses.

Instead, she reaches over and squeezes his hand. She is smiling when he looks up at her.

Remembrance.

"Fernand Mondego," she says.

Albert is silent for a long moment before he says, "Franz d'Epinay."

Their hands are still linked when they whisper together:

"Edmond Dantes."

= = =

Albert knows he will see them one day. He will hug Eugenie and smile at her. He will sit by Franz's grave, and bring flowers, and tell him everything that has happened and refuse to remember that Franz will never go beyond the age of fifteen. He will be present for Haydee's coronation.

He will. He knows he will.

But not yet. Not yet.

Albert has no one left to forgive -

\- except for himself.

**END**

 

 

 


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